


Unjustified

by notyourparadigm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Canon Related, Character Analysis, Gen, communication problems, which basically is the biggest issue with their relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2529056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourparadigm/pseuds/notyourparadigm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mid-AGoT/Season 1. After saving Bran’s life, Theon’s more than a little bitter about the scolding that Robb gave him. When finally approached about the incident, both Robb and Theon realize that there is far more to the matter than just ‘what could have gone wrong’. </p><p>Rather heavy on the Throbb undertones, but if you squint it could go either way. Kind of like canon, really. At least that’s the intention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unjustified

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore what essentially 'went wrong' with Theon and Robb's relationship (at least, from Theon's perspective), and how Theon began to feel distanced from Robb even back in Season 1 / the first book, while Robb thought they were A-OK. Let me know if you agree or disagree with my interpretation. 
> 
> The scene and dialogue referenced is from the wildling attack scene within the books, but it works from the show's version as well.

The bow thrummed in Theon's hands as he loosed another arrow, the sixth one quickly jutting out from the archery target in Winterfell’s inner ward. Four more sat in the quiver at his hip; he slid out one of them, drawing his bowstring back once again. He paused a moment with the fletching against his cheek, holding a deep breath, appreciating the familiar feeling. A powerful feeling. Possibly even more empowering than straddling atop a naked woman, with his hands and mouth free to go wherever he pleased. Before he had fetched his bow, he had considered stopping to pay sweet Kyra a visit, to fuck her until they both were sweaty and senseless, but for the first time in a long while the thought made him feel foul. It was _anger_ that gnawed at his insides, not some lusting a woman could satiate. The Queen herself probably couldn’t have aroused Theon Greyjoy, let alone pink, squealing Kyra–– even if she could, Theon knew the poor girl didn’t deserve what he’d probably do to her in his present irritation, and she hadn’t done anything wrong.

And of course, supposedly this was all _his_ fault.

_‘What if you had missed the shot? What if you’d only wounded him? What if you had made his hand jump, or hit Bran instead?’_

His finger moved, and the arrow found its mark again. That made it seven times he made his shot, and a thousand times before that. _I’ll make it a thousand times again, and even more, until age stiffens my fingers and takes the steadiness from my arms._ It was no mere fluke that Theon had killed the wildling. A wide back made an easy target; had he wanted to, he could have put another shaft into it before the poor bugger had even hit the ground. Theon’s arrows always struck where he willed them to go. _The arrow could never have hit Bran except through that wildling, and he was large enough that it would have been barely a prick._

Robb had just been overreacting. He’d just watched a knife drawn against his brother’s neck, without any power to help— of course he was hardly in reasonable mood. _Were it not for me, we’d have a dead cripple to explain to Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn._ Robb could’ve at least shown a bit of gratitude.

_‘For all you knew, the man might have been wearing a breastplate, all you could see was the back of his cloak.’_

Theon gritted his teeth, ripping another arrow from the quiver. _Wildlings don’t wear breastplate. They can hardly find knives to kill rabbits with, let alone any sort of armour._ He had made the right decision. Really, there hadn’t even been another choice— was he expected to stand back and watch Bran get his throat sliced open?

His eighth arrow flew as true as the other seven. He didn’t hesitate before he nocked and loosed the ninth, and then the tenth. It was nearly refreshing, knowing that at least his irritated mood didn’t seem to affect his aim.

 _So I didn’t consider the possibilities. What does it matter? I had only a moment to act, and Bran is alive because of it. Had I taken any longer to think he would’ve been killed or taken hostage. What's done is done, and the Stark whelp is barely even hurt._ Things couldn’t have gone much better than they did–– so _why_ was this bothering him so much?

Theon pushed his hair out of his eyes as he trudged off to retrieve the arrows from the target, tapping his thumb agitatedly against the wood of his bow. _It’s because Stark has a damned point, and I don’t want to admit it._

He had made a decision, but really it had been little more than an impulse. Things had turned out alright this time, but next time fortune might not have smiled upon him so readily. Theon’s rashness was his greatest fault, and Robb Stark had been kind enough to point it out in front of everyone–– and during what should have been a chance for Theon to finally get some gratitude from Winterfell’s household.

Robb was four years younger than Theon, but he still lectured and chastised him as if he were _his_ elder. _He thinks himself wiser than me. Just because he's heir to Winterfell does not mean he's the most intelligent man in the North._ Theon yanked the first arrow out with a grunt, returning it to the quiver.

“Most men break things when they are angry.” The voice almost made Theon brandish his bow as he turned, but fortunately he recognized it before his impulsiveness could embarrass him again. Based on the small grin on Robb Stark's face, he was amused by the way Theon had started. He didn't return the smile. 

“Sounds like a good way to make a mess, to me. And a waste of coin. I'd rather save the damage for when it counts.” _Like when I'm saving your brother's skin._

“You’re smarter than most men, then. So how is it that you can’t be bothered to use your brain when it counts?”

Theon scoffed. “If you’ve come all the way out here to lecture me, save your breath. I’m not in the mood.”

He frowned at that. _He looks like his father when he frowns._ “You’re ‘not in the mood?’ What right have you to be upset, when it was _you_ that put Bran’s life in danger?”

“Bran would be _dead_ if it wasn’t for me!”

“Bran could’ve been dead _because_ of you. Did you even consider—”

“—no, I didn’t! I admit it!” Theon’s voice was raised, but he grew a little flustered at himself when he realized that Robb’s wasn’t. Robb never shouted when he was angry; he just dropped his voice into that low, unnerving growl. Ned Stark did the exact same thing. _It’s as if I’m the childish one._ “There wasn’t time to consider things. I had to act, or watch your brother get his neck opened. It was one risk for another.”

“ _One risk for another?_ ” Robb sounded disgusted. “This isn’t some kind of game, Greyjoy. This is about my brother’s _life_.”

Theon tightened his fists. He had never been ashamed of his ironborn heritage, but there were times when Robb called him _Greyjoy_ that he heard the word articulated as an insult. He meant it as a reminder that he was not Theon of House Stark; he wasn't even a true northerner. Back on Pyke, the ironborn had the same mentality, accusing you of being a greenlander when you acted particularly craven. _Everyone always like to think themselves the best._

He turned his back to Robb, tugging out the remainder of the arrows. “You speak as if I know nothing of lost brothers.”

Rarely had Theon spoken of Rodrick or Maron whilst in Winterfell, even to Robb, but there wasn’t a soul within the walls who didn’t know of their fate. Theon might not have shared a close bond with his brothers, but they had been his brothers all the same. The reminder seemed to catch Robb off-guard, as he had to search carefully for his words before he replied, allotting enough time for Theon to finish his harvest and walk back to his shooting position. When at last Robb spoke, his voice was stiff and formal, as if he were addressing one of his father’s bannermen, not his friend of nine years. 

“I do not mean any offence, but your brothers were both men grown and skilled fighters, who died fighting in their father’s rebellion.” 

 _In_ my _father’s rebellion_ , Theon almost corrected, but he held his tongue.

“Bran is _eight_. And in his condition he’s hardly capable of protecting himself. If he were ever to come to harm, I could only hold myself responsible.”

Theon stiffened, grimacing. “You don’t trust me.”

“That’s not what I said.” 

 _But it is what you meant._ Theon knew perfectly well that not even the lowliest of the stable boys trusted him. Even after nine years, he was still a stranger to Winterfell. He was still Ned Stark’s hostage, and hostages were rarely famous for their loyalty to their captors. Everyone was waiting for the day that Theon Greyjoy screwed up, for the day they could say _'I always knew he’d be trouble. There’s no hope for his lot.'_

Once, years ago, he and Robb had played a prank on Lady Catelyn, relocating pockets full of snakes and frogs they had caught in the godswood to her personal chambers while she was bathing with her handmaids. While the both of them got a good laugh out of her terrified shrieks, and they both had been rewarded with the same loud, upset scolding, only Theon had been given a beating, and only Theon had been confined to his room for a fortnight afterwards. He might have spent much of his time with the Stark children, but he never once did he make the mistake of believing he was one of them. 

“Would you have yelled at Mollen, had he shot the arrow? Or Quent?” Both guardsmen had been in the hunting party that morning, but both of them had arrived after the skirmish ended.

Robb bristled. “Would Mollen or Quent have been beheaded had they accidentally shot Bran?”

Theon’s lungs filled with a maddening heat in a single, sharp breath, muscles tensing without his permission. He closed the distance between himself and Robb with two violent strides, locking the Stark in a loathsome gaze, entirely infuriated as his own inability to think of a response worthy of the anger that he struggled to suppress.

“I won’t lie to you, Theon.” Robb seemed unfazed, meeting Theon’s scathing look with placidity. “I’ll admit I am being harsher on you than if it had been everyone else. But you _aren’t_ everyone else. You can’t forget that. I don’t want to see you killed any more than Bran.”

Theon wondered if Robb had intended to conciliate him with the confession, because as earnestly as he had spoken it, it had only served to vex Theon even further. He had likely meant it as a way of saying he cared about Theon, and that he was one of the few people who would give a damn if Lord Eddard was finally forced to kill his hostage. But it certainly didn’t fill Theon with the sort of magical, loving warmth that Robb seemed to want. 

 _Don’t you dare try to make this look like some strange act of kindness. I’m not going to praise you for being the only man in Winterfell who treats me like a fucking person._ _Most people_ expect _to be given that sort of respect, and yet you want me to treat it like a damned gift. You want me to thank you for your incredible compassion, is that it? Do you want to be rewarded for being upset at the thought of your honourable father taking my head?_

Theon almost told Robb just that, almost explained that he wasn’t going to bow graciously because he treated him like a decent person. Yet before he could find the words to say as much, he found himself queerly distracted by the blue eyes Robb had narrowed upon him, how close they were to his own. He was only fifteen, and yet no longer did he have to crane his neck to meet Theon’s gaze— instead, he stared at him with equal eye level, as if they were actually equals. When had he gotten so tall? 

_He could pass for eighteen if he wanted. A few more years and he’ll be taller than me. Of course... he's always been destined to surpass me, even in fucking height._

Theon wasn’t sure at what point he had cast his bow aside; all he knew was that as he tackled Robb to the ground, his hands were free to grab at the collar of his furs, pinning him firmly in place. Robb had managed to raise his arms up in self-defence before they met the dirt, maintaining a stiff grasp on Theon’s chest to keep him at arm’s length, but his expression appeared more confused than defensive.

For several moments, neither Greyjoy nor Stark spoke, and neither shifted to move from the uncomfortable position. Theon began to wonder if he even could keep Robb held in place, were he to struggle against him. He might have had the better position, but there was no doubt that Robb was far heavier of muscle. It wasn’t strength that kept Robb upon his back— _then what? Respect? Or fear?_ Theon knew that a lord could be killed by his people just as easily as any commoner. He stayed alive only because they respected him, or because they feared him. _But never both._ Theon knew how the people would see Robb when his time as Lord of Winterfell arrived. He wasn’t so sure about himself. 

_Which is it, Robb? Do you hesitate out of fear, or respect?_

Either way, the opportunity was ideal— a hundred and one different things came to Theon’s mind, things he had long wanted to say to Robb, things he could finally force him to hear, questions he could force him to _answer_ , not just laugh away. And yet, every last one died upon his lips as he stared down at the white of his knuckles rising and falling with each of Robb’s heavy breaths. His mind drew blank as he saw the familiar eyes blink at him, bewildered and hidden beneath boyish red curls.

“I would die for you,” he said finally. “Did you know that?”

His words lingered a little too long in the chilly air, the smoky wisps clouding the view between their faces. Robb remained frozen in place; it wasn’t quite the reaction that Theon had hoped to see. 

It was only after much delay that Robb finally donned an impatient look, pushing Theon onto his side with the same courtesy he had been afforded when thrown to the ground. “Get off. I just told you that I _don’t_ want you to die, I––”

“Would you shut up for a minute, Stark?” Theon picked himself off the ground, a black look stained upon his face. “Don’t think that I’m going to run off to my death just because you command it–– if you go off to war and start ordering some fool attacks I’ll be the first to tell you to piss off. I don’t plan on dying because of something stupid. When I die, I will die fighting for something I believe in. Someone.”

Robb gave a quiet grunt as he stood, evidently having hit the dirt harder than Theon expected. “I don’t want—”

“— _but as you are aware_ ,” Theon gave Robb an irritated glare, tired of being interrupted, “My own life isn’t even mine to give. It belongs to your father, and only so long as my own doesn’t misbehave. Know this, Stark: I also don’t plan on dying on account of someone else’s fuck ups. Not even my father’s.”

But of course, Robb knew that already. While all the laws of gods and men would see Theon beheaded if Balon Greyjoy were to step out of line, Theon had never planned to let such a thing happen. _Not without a fight, at least._ Years ago, Robb had asked him what he would do if the command was given— a bold question for a young boy, and one that Theon had possessed no desire to answer. He had brushed both Robb and the question aside, but Robb had been taught to seek the truth, no matter how ugly, and for months did not relent until he finally got an answer.

He had probably already suspected what Theon’s answer would be. No doubt he had wanted to hear Theon admit to it aloud. And Theon did not lie–– he would never be able to find the nerve to sit in his bedchamber, patiently awaiting summons for his execution. If he had the opportunity, he would try to escape under the cover of night, leaving Winterfell just as unceremoniously as he had arrived those many years ago. If that wasn’t possible... well, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time someone battled for their own life. _And not the first time someone would be hopelessly outnumbered doing so, either. But better to die fighting to the last than to meet your fate with a whimper._

He could remember the confession clearly: Robb had said absolutely nothing to his answer. He hadn’t turned angry, hadn’t tried to challenge the response, hadn’t given him some childish speech about honour and duty. And all the same, it was not difficult to see the pain the truth had given him. But it was the reality, and Ned Stark had taught his son to seek the truth no matter how harsh. Not much had changed, in that regard–– regardless of whatever fondness they possessed for each other, Robb would not have the power to stop an execution ordered by the King, and it would be treason for him to help Theon flee.

Theon knew better than to expect any help from Robb in the matter… just as he knew he needed not fear Robb trying to _prevent_ an escape. He could remember how Robb’s lip had quivered when he made the vow, promising to take no action and hold no grudges if Theon was forced to run with what remained of his life. 

 _I don’t imagine many Starks have ever made such a dishonourable promise,_ thought Theon. _Though I doubt many Greyjoys have said they’d die for a Stark, either._ The notion brought a small, cynical smile to his face. 

“When you call the banners, every man who answers will be doing so by his own choice. They will come because of their allegiance to you and your house, because they share your sense of justice and honour. At least let me do the same. Don’t drag me to war behind you as a hostage forced to fight. Let me ride beside you as a friend and equal. As a loyal ally, not a political prisoner.”

Robb crossed his arms. “You’re not a prisoner, Theon. You’re my father’s ward.”

 _Say that as many times as you like. It won’t make it true._ “Everyone in the North thinks of me as your captive.”

“I can’t change the thoughts of others.”

“Aye,” Theon agreed. “But you can change your own.”

Robb’s confused expression was nearly enough to drive Theon mad. “I don't understand.”

“Stop looking at me the same way everyone else does!” Theon’s voice broke mid-sentence, an embarrassing reminder that he was shouting again. “You…” _How don’t you understand?_ “You can stop treating me like… like I’m one of Farlen’s hounds, the ones you keep locked in the kennels because you think they’ll bite someone. Because you’re afraid you’ll be held responsible when they do. I’m not some kind of animal that you scold whenever things go wrong.”

The analogy did nothing to remedy Robb’s confusion. _He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it,_ Theon decided, frustration chafing at his patience. _Of course he doesn’t. People have been treating me like this since the day I arrived. He doesn't realize how blind he is to it._

“I didn’t come out here to insult you, you know. I’m still not sure what you are talking about–– you aren’t a dog, and you aren’t a prisoner. Not so far as I can see, at least. If someone is treating you improperly, I can talk to them—”

“—gods, no!” That was the _last_ thing Theon wanted. If he sent a boy off to demand the respect that he deserved, no one would ever take him seriously. “I— I just…” 

 _Say something, you fool._ He had already made a mockery of himself trying to explain his anger. There was little else that Theon could say that would embarrass himself any further. But it made no difference; he could try to explain it a thousand different ways, and Robb still wouldn’t understand. He would never understand, not truly. Theon could hold him down and force him to listen, but Robb would just lie and claim to understand. He might even believe that he did. _You cannot teach colours to a blind man._ _Just say what he wants to hear._  

“I’m… sorry about today. Believe me, everything I did, I did to protect your brother. I know things could have gone worse –– much worse –– but…” Theon paused, giving a defeated sigh, “…next time you tell me, could you wait until we’re in private?”

Perhaps Robb honestly hadn’t considered the embarrassment Theon had felt when he chastised him in front of the rest of the hunting party, or perhaps he had simply seen how much Theon had to swallow his pride to _admit_ that he had been embarrassed. Either way, Robb’s expression lightened at the request, finally ridding itself of the infuriating confusion.

 “… I’m sorry, Theon. I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t realize... no, that’s no excuse. I should’ve thought of how you’d feel.” He offered a sympathetic smile. “I’m glad you saved Bran. Everything’s turned out fine, so we should just put this behind us, alright? The lessons have all been learned.”

 _Not all of them,_ Theon mused bitterly.

“Just— promise me you’ll always be honest with me. Especially when things like this are bothering you— keeping your problems to yourself won’t solve anything.”

 _Neither does talking about them, apparently._ “I promise if you do. Even the future Lord of Winterfell needs advisors.”

“Only the wisest and most experienced.” Robb grinned, looping an arm though one of Theon’s to tug him back towards the dining hall. “C’mon, you haven’t supped yet. You must be starving. Gage has prepared a feast of duck with peppered potatoes, and I think there’s pudding for desert. I’m sure there’ll be plenty left, if we hurry…”

Theon nodded with an affirmative smile, but a part of him knew that the hollow feeling in his gut wasn’t from hunger.

 


End file.
